c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-25)
With temperatures warming as the end of May approached, Evergreen Estates had finally moved past the season of freezing and thawing that was typical in their Midwestern climate. Streets around the property were cracked and full of potholes, due in part to a lack of maintenance with ownership changing constantly. But as brighter days arrived, the sight of a golf cart stacked with tools and buckets of gravel became common.
The efficiency initiative at their rural, trailer community meant that there were now no supervisors or members of a maintenance crew on-site. But the current regime from Pemmican Asset Management had contracted with a local Home Depot store to provide some relief. The retail location, in turn, hired individuals to perform limited repairs as private operators. Most of these fellows were retirees with knowledge of fix-it tasks acquired over long years of farm or factory work.
Rahm Stocker had been at the Perry Nuclear Generating Station for many years. But after leaving as senior employees were made redundant, he became bored, grouchy, and pot-bellied. His wife had passed away, and children were spread across the continent, with careers and other interests taking precedence. So, the part-time endeavor of performing fix-it chores around the county made sense.
The PAM investor group had directed him to fill gaping holes in the tarmac with loose stones. A sort of aggregate that quickly got bounced out of place by passing traffic, especially big-tired pickup trucks. His duties were simple, and somewhat futile. Much like the mythical, Greek tale of Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill. Yet having a regular schedule of sorts, and a potential for more assignments in the future, gave him a sense of purpose.
He stayed busy while shaded by the canopy of his electrified buggy.
Townshend Carr Lincoln was generally on his three-sided porch after the hour of noon, with a bottle of spirituous liquor. Most often, he streamed music from a cell phone in his shirt pocket, to stay entertained while getting drunk. But having company of some kind, made this experience more tolerable.
Both men would encounter each other at some point during the day. When this happened, their conversations were often lively and uninhibited. Both had an unspoken pessimism about existing in a setting of poverty and hardship, where their lives had little value to anyone else. Still, they each found cause to begin the day with determination to endure, and perhaps, overcome their plight. Though sparring back and forth reflected an uneasy balance struck between confidence, and despair.
Lincoln shouted from his seat while sipping Kentucky bourbon, on a Monday. His hillbilly twang had returned, after eschewing the company of neighbors for most of the month.
“Yer out here again? Gawdamm! What’s the point, dude? Filling those holes lasts a day or two maybe, but no longer. It’s a fucked-up errand to run!”
Rahm hadn’t shaved his face in several days, being a widower. He felt gritty and damp.
“Hey Link, pipe down over there! It’s a job, I get paid once a month. Maybe I will that is, they’re supposed to mail me a check...”
The alcoholic hermit doubled over with amusement.
“Mail a check? Hahahahahah, yer a comedian! That’s freaking hilarious! These people never pay their bills, that’s why the trash only gets picked up now and then. And why the water goes off every week. There’s nobody to hear their complaints!”
His contact with the boxy, golf scooter snorted and scowled.
“Well, if they don’t pay me, Home Depot will take them to court. We got an arrangement, it’s all legal, you know? How about that, buddy?”
Lincoln savored the burn of his bottled-in-bond whiskey.
“Yer out of luck, man! I heard the Pemmican people are all lawyers. They know how to game the system...”
Rahm shoveled gravel until all of his buckets were empty. With regret, he realized that there was no more supply left at the maintenance garage.
“Dammit, I’m out of rocks for right now! I only get paid for four hours at a time anyway, so maybe it don’t matter. But I like keeping busy!”
His chum with the big jug had reached a point of pleasant inebriation.
“D’ya think these people really give a shit? Or is it a PR move, just to make good with the bankers? Not that they’d care either, nobody cares. I read in the Plain Dealer that their bottom line improved by a ton after changing the way they run these mobile-home parks. Elon Musk must be proud...”
The maintenance worker made a rude noise while spitting canned tea.
“It was that way at the Perry plant, we never saw any of the top dogs. They had their own places to hang out. We got the grunt work. We took the risks, we lived with the heat if anything went wrong!”
Lincoln wiped his mouth, after taking a righteous swallow from the bottle.
“The way I see things, yer no better or worse off than me. But don’t take that as a kick in the ass! We’ve had a dozen owners here at least, and some made promises while these jokers are cutting our throats. But ya know what? It always ends up the same. This neighborhood looks like crap. Any improvements come from us, from doing things ourselves...”
Rahm patted his round stomach, and grinned.
“I keep fed by having a job. Maybe it’s fried bologna most of the time, but so be it! Not going hungry is all that matters to me! Screw taking responsibility for anything else!”
The boozing loner nodded with agreement.
“It’s like Hank Williams Jr. sang, ‘A Country Boy Can Survive!’ That’s the routine here in our junkyard hellhole. That’s the ritual...”
The contract employee manifested a hint of regret, while pondering his depleted stash. Other streets at the isolated development would have to wait till tomorrow. Or until whenever Pemmican Asset Management allocated more crushed aggregate for filling holes. He figured that just getting in touch with the distant owners could take several days, or more.
“I’ll see you on the next round trip, Link! Don’t piss your pants, old man!”
No comments:
Post a Comment